Adventures of a Teenage Consulting Detective
by The Villain's Accomplice
Summary: The first time John laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes, the boy's teeth were sunken into another student's arm as he was being punched in the face repeatedly. Teen!lock AU. Possible Johnlock, but I haven't decided yet
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The first time John laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes, the boy's teeth were sunken into another student's arm as he was being punched in the face repeatedly.

Struggling back from classes to get to his dormitory, John Watson had noticed the crowd gathered near the front gates of St. Bart's, and stopped to see what the disturbance was all about.

_Bloody hell, _he thought to himself. _First__ day of classes and some bloke's already picked a fight._

It was John's first year at St. Bart's Academy, but being 17, it would also be his last. After a series of unfortunate occurrences at his former school (resulting in a bad limp and a horrific scar running from shoulder to abdomen), John's parents decided that it was best to send him away from home and the bad memories of the previous year.

John pushed his way through the crowd, enough so that he could see the two boys wrestling, both around his age. One was rather bratty-looking, middle-parted brown hair framing a permanently sour expression staining his features. Although it could have been triggered by the fact that he was being bitten viciously by another, lanky, boy with dark hair falling over the majority of his face.

The other students huddled around this display had been cheering and taunting, most of them in favor of Anderson, who John guessed was the short greasy one throwing the punches. The other seemed as if biting was his only defense, although it did seem to be inflicting some damage, John gathered from the pained look on Anderson's face as he tried to swat the enemy away.

John immediately noticed how Anderson failed to maintain a proper defensive stance. He was positioned in such a way that it would be easy for someone to aim for his lower abdomen and cause his body to crumple under the force.

The tall boy finally released his teeth, and drew back, regaining his composure, and standing at his full height to glance disdainfully down at Anderson just as his opponent attempted to deliver another blow.

At the last second, the boy ducked under Anderson's fist and swiftly shifted himself to end up behind the attacker. Anderson looked dumfounded, having just realized he'd swung past his skinny, vanishing target when he turned to meet the boy's long right leg extend upwards in a graceful high-kick, foot landing squarely on his chest and pushing him forcefully to the ground.

Many of the students were shocked, some had been capturing videos on their mobiles the entire time, while others muttered choice swear words under their breath and walked away. The taller boy stood triumphantly over his victim, sniffing in a dignified manner and straightening his school uniform before pushing his hair back from his sharp, pale face.

As most of the crowd dispatched, a black girl with a turned-up nose glared at the boy for a moment, before muttering "freak" and helping Anderson (who was now whining and making his best effort to restrict sobs of indignation) to his feet and leading him away.

John then realized everyone else had left, and he was standing alone with the strange boy who towered over him, icy gaze locked on John. He was completely silent, pale eyes observant and scrutinizing in a way that would make one uncomfortable. The boy's mouth suddenly quirked up into a half-smirk and John realized he'd been staring dumfounded this entire time. He quickly turned and hurried away, deciding it would be best if he wasn't left alone with this strange, possibly psychotic, other student.

-x-

John opened the door to his empty room, set down his books, and collapsed on the bed. Unlike most other aspects of his life, he actually lucked out registering for St. Bart's at the last minute. Due to everyone else already being paired off, he landed a room to himself on the far end of the school. A prodding roommate was the last thing he needed to deal with right now.

It's not that John wasn't social. He was, or at least, used to be. Among both playing for the rugby team and being involved in many school events, John easily fell into a large group of friends, although none were very close. He was admired for his loyalty and fierce determination, or so his therapist, Ella, always reminded him.

He didn't need a therapist, he knew that much. He wasn't weak, or emotionally unstable. Quite the opposite, actually, and that's what got him into trouble in the first place. But it was in, of course, his "best interests", just like transferring schools.

He remembered his parents saying goodbye yesterday before he boarded the train. He didn't expect to miss them, but he might get a call from Harry sooner or later.

John thought about his last therapy session. Ella asked him about his limp for the millionth time, then told him that they would check back in after a few weeks when he was better adjusted to the new school. She handed him a journal just before he left to record his thoughts in the meantime. That way, he could understand his "feelings" by looking over his "progress".

And a load of utter shit that was.

John hadn't even considered using the journal. But if there was anything he was willing to record, it would likely be the row he had just witnessed. Maybe something about that strange tall boy, or how he smirked maniacally when he and John were the only two left standing there. It was a story John was unsure of how to begin or end, and ultimately he decided against writing it.

He thought about asking around about the boy. From what John knew, he wasn't very well liked, possibly a delinquent, and an excellent (while eccentric) fighter. John didn't remember seeing him in any of his classes, but he wasn't paying close attention anyway. So far the only other people he really knew by name were Mike Stamford, who sat next to him in calculus and seemed nice enough, and Sarah Sawyer, the pretty girl he was paired with in chemistry. He supposed he could count Greg Lestrade, although he was the housemaster of John's dormitory. Lestrade met with all the newer students at orientation, so it wasn't someone he could consider a classmate. And then Anderson, who he had never actually spoken to, but witnessed getting kicked on his arse earlier that day, so not really someone he planned to make friends with.

Friends could wait, he decided. Besides, Ella had been telling him his own self-improvement would come before relying on others. Or so John remembered.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**Author's Note: So I went back and added some stuff to the first chapter for more background information regarding John's past... we'll let Sherlock deduce the rest for us, though.**

**I forgot to say that I don't own the characters, and this chapter is loosely based off a scene in A Study in Pink, so I don't own that, either.**

**Thank you for any reviews! I'm honestly not even sure where I'm going with the whole of this story, so all suggestions are helpful. I'm terrible at coming up with mysteries, maybe I'll just base it off of something canon... I don't know. Enjoy!**

Bloody _idiot_.

John knew something was different walking to chemistry that morning, the campus was almost empty and outside it did seem... darker.

Without realizing it, he'd set his alarm an hour early, and was now standing alone in the doorway of the empty lab.

It was at this moment John understood the potential benefits of actually having a roommate.

He cursed to himself. Even if an hour early was considerably better than an hour late, it still left John waiting around in the empty lab until people began showing up. He could try to limp back to his room and get some more sleep, but the length of the walk both ways, especially on a bad leg, would leave him with about five minutes before he had to leave again.

John stopped for a moment. It seemed particularly odd that the door would be unlocked as well as some of the lights left on, seeing as the professor wasn't even here yet. That's when he noticed someone on the far end of the room, scribbling down notes while bent over a microscope.

"Hey," John called without thinking of it, "what're you doing here?"

The boy looked up, only slightly startled, and to John's surprise it was the taller student from yesterday. The possibly insane one.

"I always come in early," he replied in a casual monotone, turning his focus back to the microscope.

"Um. Why?"

"Only time they'll allow me outside of class. Rather ridiculous, isn't it, a school that boasts so much about its own education system should at least encourage students to exercise the more useful resources provided."

He had recited the entire sentence in a single breath, as if it were something he rehearsed every night in front of the mirror.

"Well... do you mind if I wait here?" John asked.

"...Not particularly," the boy answered, still studying the slide under his microscope.

John put his books down on a desk at the far end of the room, and feeling awkward just sitting there, cautiously made his way closer to where the boy was standing.

"What's that you're working on?" John inquired, curiosity taking the better of him.

"Hair samples. Always fascinating, but hardly anyone ever volunteers to donate."

He then muttered something about being stuck with Anderson as "hardly an adequate subject, with all that excess oil ruining the slides," and it took John a moment to pick up what the boy meant.

"So that bloke Anderson yesterday... you _stole _his hair." John clarified, mostly to himself.

"Yes, that was the primary intention. But he chose to put up a fight and so I steered my research into what bruises develop on skin when bitten... that reminds me, I'll have to examine Anderson's arm sometime today."

John would feel more disgusted and afraid, but his fascination kept him asking more.

"So... that was what all the fighting was about."

The other boy ignored the statement, looking up from the microscope as he removed its slide. "Would you care to help me with a case?"

This caught John off guard. "A case? Like... a mystery?"

"Of a sort. Are you interested?"

"...Only if it doesn't involve biting people's arms or stealing their hair," John retorted.

The boy smirked. "We'll get started immediately after classes today, if that works for you. Sorry, I've got to dash, my next class is across campus."

He had already packed up his things, and was walking to the door when John stopped him.

"Wait... we don't know a thing about each other, I don't know where we're meeting... I don't even know your name."

The other boy smirked again, drawing in a breath to begin what John was sure would be an astoundingly lengthy run-on sentence. His hypothesis was correct.

"I know you're a top student, however you've been kicked out of your old school due to intense fights you didn't start, and are more than capable of hurting someone. You've been seeing a therapist since, but don't believe it necessary, and therefore refuse to follow the advice given to you.

"You used to play a sport, most likely rugby, but the injuries you've acquired from violence have put you in no position to be participating any longer, especially that limp, even though it's psychosomatic, but you've most likely been kicked off the team anyway. Oh, and your younger brother won't admit it, but he wants you to call."

The mention of his limp made John shift slightly, noticing he'd temporarily forgotten about it. The other boy noticed.

"It's... enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

He strode the rest of the way to the door, and just before leaving, turned the corner and spoke once again.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and we meet at the front gates to the school. I'll be waiting."

He gave a wink, swung around, and walked through the door, leaving John utterly and completely dumfounded once again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**Okay, so it took forever for me to update this. Therefore, looooong chapter. I couldn't think of a great first "case" for Sherlock and John to investigate together so sorry if it sounds sort of weird/inaccurate/boring. Really, I'm open to any suggestions for an actual mystery! Hope you enjoy :)**

The last few minutes of class dragged on excruciatingly, but finally the bell rang. John jumped from his seat and piled his books together, quickly dashing out the door.

All John could think about through classes was the strange meeting that morning with Sherlock Holmes, and the invitation to help investigate a "case" had spiked his curiosity even more. John hurried down the hallway to meet the other boy outside of the school, and with his mind elsewhere, crashed into someone else walking in the opposite direction.

Papers flew. John's books were knocked out of his arms and onto the ground.

Bending over to retrieve them, he looked up and saw Sarah Sawyer, the girl from chemistry. She was frantically grabbing at spilled papers too, and when John finished gathering his things, he stood to help her.

"Thanks," she replied, brushing a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear as John handed her a stack of notes.

"Don't mention it," John stated, heart picking up a little.

Sarah squinted. "I know you. We've got chemistry together... and your name's John," she finished triumphantly.

John nodded and chuckled. "Yeah, I know. You're Sarah."

It sounded stupid, but he didn't know what else to say.

She laughed. "Well, thank you again, _John_." She emphasized his name a little with a smile. "I have to go, I'm meeting my roommate... see you tomorrow?"

"See you tomorrow," he agreed. He was sure a small blush was beginning to creep onto his cheeks.

Sarah walked away, turning back once to grin at him, and John could only manage to wave back. He stood like that for a few moments after she was gone, playing back the encounter in his head.

John remembered what he had been in such a hurry for, and took off again so as not to keep Sherlock Holmes waiting.

-x-

John arrived by the front gates, slightly out of breath from running.

Sherlock was leaning up against the wall, wrapped snugly in a long, dark overcoat and checking his mobile. He glanced up when he saw John approaching, and John glimpsed a brief look of surprise on his face before he pushed off the wall and started walking.

John followed his lead, jogging slightly to keep up with the taller boy's stride. He was just about to open his mouth when Sherlock spoke.

"You've got questions."

"Where are we going?"

"Crime scene."

John was still surprised, even though he'd been told it was something like this. He walked in silence a few more moments before piping up again.

"This morning... how did you know all that stuff about me?"

Sherlock stopped walking, and John nearly ran into him. "Was I right?"  
"Yes, but I don't see how you could-"

He continued his quick pace. "I simply observed. First off, I noted you were expelled from your previous school. Obvious, there would be no reason for someone of a middle-class family like your's to attend Saint Bartholomew's, besides expulsion or scholarship. If it were a scholarship, you wouldn't have been registered so last-minute, so the latter it is.

"Your grades are important to you, however, you're in the highest classes, so why else would you be kicked out? This traces back to your injuries, primarily the limp. You've fractures due to rugby I assumed, but what about the scarring that looks to be intentionally inflicted by another person? Put two and two together, fights took you out of the school. Not bullying; there are obvious signs you know how to defend yourself in a fight. I picked that up from your spectatorship of Anderson and I yesterday; you saw his lack of defense points, am I correct? But you never looked for an opportunity on the offensive side, because you're reluctant to fight.

"And finally, your brother Harry, I assume younger based on the handwriting, left a note stuck to the back of your coat with his phone number, he must have thought you'd find it eventually. I believe it's still there."

Sure enough, John turned and saw a quickly scrawled post-it with Harry's name and mobile number.

"...shit."

Sherlock grinned. "So I was right then? About everything?"

John quickly ran over the small speech in his head. He realized he should have felt offended, freaked out, or violated in some way, but it only stunned him. He found himself answering the taller boy.

"I was expelled from my last school," he began slowly, "...because of fights I didn't start..."

Sherlock beamed smugly.

"...and my younger _sister_, Harriet, goes by Harry."

His face fell like a child's, and immediately turned into an angry scowl.

"I knew there would be _something_, there's always something."

John hesitated. "Well, other than that, it was spot-on. How do you get that from just 'observing' though?"

"The power of deduction."

John snorted.

Sherlock scowled again. "Excuse me?"

"'Power of deduction'? Are you some sort of superhero? Or detective?"

"Consulting detective, actually. The only one in the world, I invented the job myself."

John chuckled. "You're seventeen."

"_Sixteen_."

"Sixteen. What detective work could you possibly be doing at a boarding school?"

Sherlock smirked. "For example, the case we're investigating right now."

He stopped walking and John noticed they had reached the small beach of a lake with a dock stretching further over the water.

Before John had a chance to ask, Sherlock got to work explaining.

"The night before classes start, every year, the older students throw an extravagant party on this end of school grounds. Jack Downing, a year twelve, came to me yesterday explaining that after having a bit too much to drink, he went to stand on the dock and clear his head. A group of other students found him, and as some sort of joke stripped him of his shoes and jacket, and pushed him in the lake. No one was hurt, but Jack's pride sent him to me to find the culprits and report them, so that Jack may seek revenge as seen fit. I thought I'd come by today to find any evidence leading to a suspect."

John considered this for a moment. It seemed like legitimate detective work actually, and again he was mildly impressed. "So what we're doing now is looking for evidence?"

"Exactly. Anything that might lead to the offenders."

"...like those?" John pointed to a small pile of beer bottles that looked as if the owners had carelessly attempted to conceal them amid the grass and rocky sand.

"Excellent." Sherlock walked over and crouched by the bottles, examining them closely. John wasn't sure how observing beer bottles could lead them to a student, but having just been stunned by the "powers of deduction", he had no room to be doubtful.

"More over here," he pointed out, also crouching to examine the litter.  
Sherlock seemed intent on examining each bottle. It was when the boys found and studied a third pile of two bottles laying by a ridiculous checkered hat (John believed it was called a deerstalker) that he drew himself up to announce a conclusion.

"Three to four boys in total. Only one of them physically pushed Jack, though," he explained, pointing at the single trail of footprints leading to the dock. This trail came from the bottles by the hat.

"Left-handed. The smudge marks indicate each bottle was carried left-handed, as well as put down and picked up. What's more-"  
Sherlock bent over and scooped up the hat, smirking-  
"Blond. Desperate to cover up a bad haircut."

John grinned. Sherlock held the deerstalker out to show him, and there were tiny hair clippings from a recent cut wedged in the seams of the fabric.

"How hard can it be to find a left-handed year twelve with badly cut blond hair and an alcohol problem?"

"We also have his shoe size and approximate height and weight."

"Not to mention the fact that he has terrible taste in hats."

Sherlock snickered. "Really," he began, twisting it about in his hands. "It's got two fronts. It's like some sort of death frisbee." He tossed it to John, saying this, and John laughed, catching the ear hat with ease.

John knew Sherlock was not an ordinary boy. But even if John thought what he needed right now was normal, this was much more fun. Crimes, mysteries. It had only been one day, but John knew he needed Sherlock Holmes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**Um. Hey.**

**Very, very sorry I haven't updated in like two and a half months. Er... yeah. I'd be lying if I said I was really busy, because I kind of just procrastinated and told myself if the other authors I was following didn't update, I didn't have to either. Not a cool kid move. Sorry. Well, it's summer now, so I'll try to be more on-the-ball about updating. But again, I have no idea where this story is going. Uh, here you go:**

That night John dreamed about Sarah. She was beautiful- blushing and giggling, and dancing aimlessly among fluttering papers. She was also wearing a deerstalker. Then Sherlock came and pushed her into a lake.

The next morning in chemistry John searched for a head of short blond hair. Two boys loosely fit the description (John didn't know their names), but they both wrote with their right hands, and neither really looked capable of pushing someone into the water.

John's eyes landed on the bruise (half covered by a hastily tugged down sleeve) on Anderson's forearm. He giggled to himself, and stopped when Sarah faced him with a confused expression. When she turned around again, he stared at her for the rest of class.

In English, John sat next to the wall, bored out of his mind. The class was abruptly interrupted by Sherlock Holmes, throwing open the door and striding in, huge coat swinging behind him.

"Not so fast, young man," piped the professor. Mrs. Hudson, a thoughtful older woman with greying brown hair, stood tall enough only to come up just below Sherlock's shoulder. "This is the third day of classes, and you're just now showing up? I'm your teacher, not your sitter, and I'm afraid I won't have you wasting my time, and that of your classmates."

In one motion Sherlock handed her a slip of paper and walked to the back of the room, taking a seat right behind John.

The content of the note was apparently excuse enough for Mrs. Hudson, because she turned back to the chalkboard and resumed the lesson.

John could feel Sherlock's eyes boring into the back of his head. He finally spoke, keeping his voice low so the rest of the class wouldn't hear.

"I assume being such an accomplished consulting detective is what keeps you far too busy to attend classes for two and a half days," he remarked sarcastically.

"Oh, don't be dull, John, English is mundane," the deep voice behind him muttered.

"What could you possibly have been doing that's so important you have to repeatedly skip English?"

John heard Sherlock shrug. "Shouldn't you be asking me why I even bothered to show up today? I'll give you a hint: it has something to do with our suspect."

John turned around to face Sherlock. "You mean he's in here?" he exclaimed in a whisper, which was more than slightly louder than he intended.

"John Watson, is everything alright?" Mrs. Hudson called.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," he replied sheepishly, already scanning the room for a blond head.

"Second row, next to the window," murmured Sherlock behind him.

A short, stout boy with a buzz cut sat hunched over his notes. Sure enough, he was scribbling with his left hand and had to be the culprit.

"Keith Downing," Sherlock explained, "is Jack's older brother. Held back a year in school. It was a rather obvious conclusion, the sibling rivalry must have been sparked by Keith's inferiority complex at being the less intelligent child. I'm surprised I hadn't guessed it from the start."

"Well, thank God we figured that out. Are we returning the hat to him?"

"I'll make sure he gets it."

-x-

The next morning, Keith was tied up at the front gates of the school for all to see, wearing only a pair of light blue pants with trains on them, and the deerstalker.

**Also, you should know I haven't slept in 38 hours. I'm sorry.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**Okay. Back on track.**

**Sort of.**

**I got some sleep and had a cookie so I was fully recharged to write more. It's mostly talking, so hopefully it's not too boring. I also realize that last chapter was really short and I didn't want to add more to it, cause I like how it ended. I did change the beginning of the story to the first day of classes, so I have enough weekdays for Sherlock to skip English.**

**Please and thank you for reviewing (was that grammatically correct?) (I don't care, I need another cookie). Thank you for bearing with me.**

**I love you.**

Sherlock was absent from English later that day. Not just English, actually, John couldn't find him anywhere. He'd been meaning to talk to the boy about Keith tied up in front of the school, maybe share a laugh at the train-printed pants, but throughout the campus Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

It was only when John got back to his dorm room that afternoon when something unusual happened.

"Harry, no, I'm not going to do that," John explained into the mobile phone. "Harry, that was a _movie_... and I don't think flagpoles are that strong. ...No, no one's been bullying me, what you're suggesting really isn't necessary."

"You're such a wanker, John," Harry stated. "Has _anything_ interesting even happened since you showed up?"

"Well... I met this boy. His name is Sherlock Holmes, he's... odd."

"Elaborate."

John explained to his sister the strange meetings with the boy, both the fight and the one in the lab, and then about the Jack Downing "case" which (to Harry's amusement) resulted in Keith tied up half naked at the front gate.

"He's extraordinary, Harry, he can read you in one glance. He knew exactly why I was here by looking at me."

"...Johnny, are you in love with this boy?"

"What?" John stammered. "No! I just- he-"

"John Watson," a voice that wasn't Harry's came out of the phone.

"Johnny, what was that?" Harry asked.

"Hang up the phone and open your laptop," said the voice.

"Who are you?" John asked.

"John-"

"Harry, I have to go. Talk to you-"

The phone turned off.

John paused a moment, wondering how the call was interfered with, and if someone was pranking him on the other end. He looked at his laptop, lying innocently on his pillow, until curiosity got the better of him and he set it on his lap and opened it.

John was immediately greeted by a man's face on his screen, and he let out a small yelp of surprise.

"John Watson," the man said.

"Yes, how do you-"

"Tell me, what is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"I- well, I barely know him; I met him two days ago."

"And since then, you've gotten him to go to English, and now you're already solving crimes together. I expect you'll be moving in together by the end of the week?"

John squinted at the screen. The man looked to be in his mid-twenties, and was dressed in a suit and tie. He obviously had an important job, based on the way he held himself, and the amount power he seemed to be in control of.

"Who are you?"

"An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock? I'm guessing you're not one of his friends."

"You've met him. How many friends do you expect he has?"

"I'm sorry, do you work here?"

The man paused, making chilling eye contact with John through the pixilated screen.

"The reason I've chosen to speak with you, Mister Watson, is that I have a proposition to make."

"...What would that be?"

"My surveillance of Sherlock Holmes is incredibly limited, more so than I'd like it to be. There would be a very large amount of money in it for you and your family if you were to... help me address that issue."

"Are you saying you want me to spy on him?"

"You are the only person Sherlock has accepted this close to him here at Saint Bartholomew's Academy, and you should know I worry about him... constantly."

"I'm the only person he trusts, and you're asking me to betray him. I'm sorry, but no, I can't do that."

John realized as he was saying this that he may have been losing an opportunity to help his family. It would almost be apology enough if he could give back to them the money they spent sending him here, and did he even really know Sherlock that well? John shook himself. He didn't know this man on the screen either, and yet he'd just considered betraying his friend, er, classmate, er... _acquaintance_ to him.

"I'm not going to tell you anything about Sherlock Holmes."

"Fair enough," the man said. "You are a loyal man, Mister Watson. But don't let that outshine your good judgement."

Before John could say anything else, the laptop shut off.

-x-

Because Sherlock had disappeared yesterday, John went searching for him in the lab before class the next morning. Sure enough, the boy was there, at the microscope, accompanied by a girl with short brown hair and a kitten sweater.

"Ah, John. I assume you saw Jack's revenge yesterday morning?"

"Oh, I thought that was you. Y'know, with the deerstalker, and all."

"The hat was my idea. Carrying him from his room in the middle of the night, stripping him down and tying him up was the work of his brother and his friends."

The girl next to Sherlock smiled slightly.

"And... who's this?" John asked, gesturing to her.

"Molly," she introduced herself, thrusting out her right hand, "Molly Hooper."

John smiled and shook it good-naturedly.

"I'm a year below you both, but sometimes I work in the lab, too," she told John.

"Molly has been helping me observe and study DNA samples of different subjects, as well as the bruise tests I conducted on Anderson."

John instinctively glanced at Molly's arms for any of Sherlock's teeth marks, but there were none.

"I have a cat," Molly explained. "He can't come to school with me, of course, but he sheds- he leaves hairs everywhere. I've been helping Sherlock research the differences in genetic material between animal and human."

She beamed shyly at Sherlock, who was busy staring into the microscope.

John cleared his throat. "Well, actually, Sherlock, I've been meaning to tell you, um, something very strange happened yesterday."

"Did it?" The boy was still looking into the microscope.

"This man, he came up through a videochat on my computer... he asked about you."

Sherlock stiffened and rose from the microscope.

"Molly was just leaving, weren't you Molly?"

"What? Um, okay, yeah," startled, Molly began gathering her things and hurried out of the room.

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes, how did you-"

"And did you take it?"

"No."

"Pity, John, your family would have benefitted greatly from it, you should really think it through next time. We could have messed with Mycroft as well."

"I'm sorry, who _is_ Mycroft? Does he work for the school board?"

"He is the school board. Never mind, I'll need you by the front gate during English today."

"I can't skip English."

"Excellent. See you then."

Sherlock grabbed his coat and books, and swished out the door.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**Auuurgh, I've been working on this chapter for ever, and now it's very very late, needless to say probably riddled with erorrs (see what I did there?), but it's pretty ridiculously long in proportion to everything else, so I'm glad I at least got it done. Thank you to anyone who has continued to read this story and put up with me, I'll try to finish preparing the next chapter as quickly as possible. Please review!**

"Er- John..." began Sarah in chemistry, "Some of us-actually Mike Stamford, and about half the chem class- are going out for pizza tonight. Did you want to come along? We could go together."

John smiled. "I'd love to. Should I meet you somewhere?"

"Front gate, around seven? We'll all walk across town. Here- take my number." Grinning, she hurriedly scribbled a line of digits down in her notebook, then tore out the page and handed it to him.

"Thanks, I'll give you mine, too."

After the brief (and only mildly awkward) exchange took place and class was dismissed, John stood outside of Mrs. Hudson's room, debating whether he should go to class or meet Sherlock. The bell rang, and he rushed inside, silently cursing himself for bottling out on the consulting detective. Walking to his seat, Mrs. Hudson spoke.

"Sherlock Holmes isn't going to be joining us today, is he, dear?"

"Afraid not," replied John. "Can't you make him come to class if you know he's been skipping?"

"Sherlock Holmes is... an exception. I'm surprised he attended yesterday at all, his older brother took three months before even bothering to show himself in my class. Of course, now Mycroft's helping run the school, so I suppose the language arts were never of use to him anyhow."

As John walked back to his seat, it all came together. Mycroft was Sherlock's brother. That's why he wanted to stay updated on Sherlock's whereabouts. It also explained why Sherlock could skip classes as he pleased; the Holmes family no doubt had lot of money if Mycroft was so quick to bribe John, and Sherlock's grades were probably unimaginably high. Mix that in with having a brother in a position of power, and it was a small wonder Sherlock bothered attending his other classes at all.

This newfound information carried John through the rest of the school day, internally attempting to unravel the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes.

It was in calculus, his last class, when Mike Stamford, the scrawny bespectacled boy to his right, nudged him once, and then a second time when John wasn't paying attention.

"Oi! Watson!" Stamford whispered sharply. John snapped back to reality at the mention of his name.

"You coming out tonight?"

"Yeah, did Sarah tell you?"

"'Sumed she'd ask. Hey... you're not hanging out with _Sherlock Holmes _are you? Bill Murray said he saw the two of you together."

"Bill Murray?"

"Not the actor. He's in your chem class, I think."

"Um, yeah. I helped Sherlock figure out who pushed Jack Downing," said John cautiously.

"Didn't hear about it. But Holmes. He doesn't have friends, the bloke. You're the first person anyone's seen him get along with in... ever."

"Are you talking about the _freak?" _asked a girl's voice from behind them.

John turned to see a familiar face, and if he couldn't remember where he knew it from, the disdain dripping from her voice when she said "freak" was enough to give her away. It was the one he saw helping up Anderson after the fight on the first day of school. She was leaning over her desk, arms crossed and an ugly sneer on her face from saying the words.

Mike laughed. "Sally's got a nickname for him. I suppose he is a bit of a freak, isn't he?"

"Well... he's different..." John squirmed, trying to defend Sherlock, "but not... _freakish_. I think everyone's just kind of scared of him."

Sally snorted. "Yeah, well I've known him longer than you, Watson, and let me tell you. Maybe you should be. Because the smug little bastard's got problems. Julia Stoner, a year ten got kidnapped and killed last year, and Holmes was all over it, it was disgusting. He was obsessive. Eventually the police figured it out, and everyone calmed down, but not Sherlock Holmes. He almost looked sad because it meant there was nothing for him to do."

This startled John. Sure, he knew Sherlock was a sort of detective. But John thought this would limit him to very minor, harmless school crimes. Murder was an entirely different case.

"Is that true?" John turned to Mike.

Stamford shifted uncomfortably before answering. "Well... yeah. But I'm sure he meant to help."

Sally chuckled. "Oh yeah, maybe the murderer."

The bell rang, and Sally as well as most of the others quickly got their things and rushed out the door.

"Listen, Watson..." began Mike as the two stood up to leave, "don't let Donovan scare you away from Sherlock Holmes. Sure, he's a freak, that much I'm not going to deny... but you're likely the closest thing he's got to a friend, and you've only known him a week. The rest of us-" (Mike gestured to himself) "-he thinks we're too dim or something to be worth his time. Keep an eye on him, John. Really."

-x-

John opened the door to his room (he could have sworn he locked it that morning), and put down his books, looking back up to see Sherlock Holmes perched on his bed frame, hands clasped together and eyes closed in a prayer position.

John gave a shout of surprise and swore profusely.

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, almost serenely. "John."

"How did you get in here!?"

"You didn't meet me in English."

"How did you even know which room was mine!?"

"You could have aided on the recovery of a stolen bracelet, and yet you chose to focus on learning the parts of speech." Sherlock's eyes drifted closed again.

"Never mind that, why are you here?"

"Because you've a date tonight, and I figured I'd tag along- Out of boredom," he added.

"How do you know that?"

"I know everything."

"No."

Sherlock opened his eyes. "Why not?" he demanded.

"Because I'm going with Sarah, and Mike Stamford, and half the chemistry class, and from what I've heard they're all afraid of you."

Sherlock tsked. "It's affectionate fear. Get dressed, we'll leave at six-thirty."

"Sherlock-" John began, but figured it was no use. "Don't pick another fight with Anderson. Promise to be nice."

"I'm always nice."

"I'm going to take a shower. If you need something, I'm sure you won't hesitate to ask."

-x-

It was ten minutes to seven. John was wearing a pair of jeans and a button-down. Sherlock donned his tremendous overcoat. The two left together.

Sarah was waiting at the gate when they got there.

She greeted John with a wave and her smile dropped nervously when she saw Sherlock walking next to him.

"Hi, John," she greeted. "Oh, um, Mike mentioned you were friends with Sherlock. Is he coming, too?"

"He ended it yesterday," stated Sherlock.

"Excuse me?"

"Your long-distance boyfriend, did he break it off yesterday, or the day before?"

Sarah turned scarlet, and John tugged Sherlock away hastily by the back of the jacket.

"If you're going to be like this, then I'm not bringing you along."

"Yes, mummy."

"Sherlock! I'm serious." John lowered his voice. "This is important for me." He glanced at Sarah, still red from embarrassment.

John went back to apologize. Sarah nodded and said it was alright. Sherlock smirked wickedly, which John caught out of the corner of his eye and returned with a glare.

Soon enough, the three were all at the nearby pizza restaurant just off campus.

Mike Stamford beckoned to them from a large table, already seating himself and about ten others.

"Glad you could make it, mate!" His eyebrows raised in surprise at seeing Sherlock. "Oh! You brought a friend."

Sherlock winced at the word, and sat down at the end of the table, right between where John had planned to sit and the seat across from it where he was pulling out a chair for Sarah.

John glanced down the table, wondering if Sherlock had already deduced each of them in his head.

At the other end was a ginger boy, he was engaged in conversation with a tall blonde girl and her less attractive friend, across from them was a big, brutish-looking bloke who spilled his drink every time he laughed (which was often). Mike Stamford sat next to him, retucking a napkin into his shirt, and on either side of the table were two identically dressed girls, whispering into each other's ears and giggling every few seconds. They all looked at John and Sherlock simultaneously.

Beside one of them were Anderson and a smug-faced boy, overdressed for the occasion. Across from Anderson was someone who John guessed to be his girlfriend, based off the fact they were leaning across the table and holding hands, which John caught Sherlock roll his eyes at on seeing. Next to her, and also to the direct left of John, sat Sally Donovan, hatred burning in her eyes at the sight of the detective.

"So you brought the freak along." Donovan remarked.

"You don't have to call him that, you know," retorted John.

"Why not? He is one."

Anderson looked over, breaking hands with his girlfriend.

"Who invited you?" he sneered to Sherlock.

"I invited myself."

"So, John," Sarah began, "I heard you and Sherlock solved the Jack Downing case. That must've been exciting!"

"Dull, actually," deadpanned Sherlock.

"Ha... ha, Sherlock. He was just joking," John tried to explain.

Sherlock grimaced.

Sarah smiled uneasily. "And... What's your favorite class, John?"

"Chemistry." Sherlock and John answered together.

The three of them sat awkwardly silent amid the background chatter of the rest of the table. Sherlock raised his hand and openly pointed across the restaurant at a couple seated at the far end.

"Third date. This time dinner is her treat, hence the choice of restaurant. She's paying to dissuade the notion that she's only interested in him for his money, but it's obvious that this is, in fact, the case."

"Sherlock!" John reprimanded in a hushed whisper, batting his outstretched arm down.

A waiter came to the far end of the table, making his way down to take everyone's order. John gave his, then asked, "And could I get a child's menu for my friend please?"

Sherlock glared. "I don't want anything, John, that won't be necessary."

John decided he needed to make an effort to pay more attention to his (real) date. "So," he began. "This's been a bit more... chaotic than I was expecting."

Sarah agreed, and to John's delight, Sherlock stood and left, John assumed to go to the toilet. John and Sarah finally got into a conversation (about chemistry class, but at least it was something) when John realized Sherlock had been gone for over ten minutes. He excused himself, not mentioning that it was to go look for Sherlock for fear of a snide remark from Donovan or Anderson.

John made his way to the back end of the restaurant and, to his horror, found Sherlock, bent over a table of old women and practicing his deductions.

"...And you're a widow, that's obvious, but you're thinking of getting remarried? Ah, but it's only been a couple of months, and you don't want suspicions to arise, am I correct?"

"Sherlock!" John cried, rushing up to the table. "I'm so sorry, so, so, sorry, he- is a dick."

The offended women only gasped at the word and John bit his tongue.

"Ah! Sorry. Sorry, didn't mean to say that. Apologies." John nodded and tugged Sherlock backwards with him, and sat him down when they got to the table, where their food was waiting for them.

"You are... unbelievable," John sighed.

"Did something happen?" asked Sarah, a crease of worry evident between her eyebrows.

"No, just... Sherlock being a pain in the arse."

"Did you mean that literally, mate?" asked the smug boy John noted earlier, smirking as he leaned across the table.

"Sebastian Wilkes," he introduced, throwing out his right hand which John deliberately did _not_ take.

"Sherlock and I go back," he continued. "The bloke could always tell if me or one of my mates had been shagging the night before. Using his magic trick." He moved his fingers to his temple. "We all hated him for it. Looks like he finally found a himself a boyfriend though."

John bristled. Sherlock stared daggers at Sebastian.

John tried to eat and continue the conversation with Sarah, which he was mildly distracted from when Sherlock began to pick pieces of food off his plate.

"What I don't understand is..." piped up Anderson, "whether John is on a date with _Sarah_, or Sherlock."

This made Donovan spit what she was drinking and cackle, adding even more noise to a conversation that was already disrupting the whole restaurant.

Sherlock smirked, and John knew his twisted, brilliant mind had already settled on a clever retort. "No," he begged quietly as Sherlock opened his mouth.

Sherlock ignored him. "Anderson, don't talk out loud; you lower the IQ of the entire street. As for you, Donovan, you're lucky stupidity isn't sexually transmitted, although frequent exposure certainly seems to be taking its toll."

He eyed the two of them wickedly, and it was like a chain reaction.

Everyone looked at Donovan and Anderson, they looked, panicked, at each other, Anderson's girlfriend processed the words before the realization dawned on her face and her drink ended up upside down on his head.

"Alright. Time to go home now," John announced, throwing the money for his and Sarah's meals on the table and gathering his jacket and Sherlock, who had risen from his own seat as well to properly insult the others.

"I'm so sorry, Sarah. I'd really love to do this another time... alone," he added.

Sarah nodded. "I understand, John. God, they can be infuriating," she said, glaring at Anderson and the lot.

John appreciated that she didn't jump to blame Sherlock, even if this could easily be traced back to him, too.

As John and Sherlock walked towards the door, Anderson cried out, "Yeah, John! Take your pet back and put it in its cage!", at which he heard a smack he believed to be delivered by Sarah.

-x-

They walked back to the school in silence, until John felt like he needed to say something.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm not saying you weren't at fault tonight, but... it wasn't fair that they were all... well, _bloody awful_ to you. I mean, I'd appreciate less of the deducing-slash-offending old ladies, as well as Sarah, who was lovely and you could have left her alone, but I apologize for Donovan and Anderson and the rest."

They both stopped walking. Sherlock looked at him, those steely blue eyes revealing no hint of emotion, and said, "I am not weak, John."

It was in that intense yet empty stare that it occurred to John how tragic Sherlock's life up until now must have been, maybe not to himself, but to John, being called a freak every day and made fun of sounded brutal. It made him remember the teasing that came after Harry announced she was gay, the taunting and cruelty that led to John lashing back to protect his little sister. The funny thing was, Harry didn't care. She was just like Sherlock in that way; she boasted it, proudly owning the fact that she was different. And she never found out what John had saved her from, who he had to fight because they threatened her and she didn't even know.

And for the first time, John Watson really felt sorry for the self-proclaimed teenage genius, self-entitled World's Only Consulting Detective.

-x-

They finally neared St. Bart's, cool night air sending a chill through John's spine and causing Sherlock to pull his coat tighter around his body. In the darkening sky, the first things John noticed were the blinding police car lights. Then the chatter of people and buzz of radio signals. Finally, and nearing the front gates, John saw the small crowd of students gathered outside, housemasters attempting to coax them back to their dormitories as police officers strode up and down the scene with their mobile radios and shining torches. Sherlock stopped and stared for a second, before a wide grin broke onto his face.

"Oh, brilliant," he breathed, like a child on Christmas morning, and before John could stop him he was already dashing ahead, darting around police officers and reaching the yellow tape squaring off part of the front entryway.

"Wait, Sherlock!" John shouted before running to meet up with him, the bloke was going to get himself in trouble _again_ tonight, and John didn't want to feel responsible for it.

"Wonderful, oh, just magnificent John. There's been another one!"

Sherlock pointed a long finger at the chalk markings on the sidewalk that John didn't quite want to believe, although they sent another chill through his bones, this time not from the cold.

"Hey! Students aren't supposed to be here!" An officer scolded, shooing them away from the taped location and towards the dorm buildings.

"Go back to your rooms, both of you."

Sherlock hesitated, and John dragged him along, back in the other direction when they saw housemaster Lestrade.

"Lestrade!" John beckoned. "What's all this?"

Lestrade sighed. "Well, I've been asked not to say a lot, but fifteen minutes ago, the body of a student, Tilly Briggs, was found outside the school," Lestrade exhaled,"dead."


	7. Chapter 7

John noticed Sherlock accompany him all the way back to his room, and feeling too exhausted to ask any questions, figured the bloke would spend the night there. He crawled into bed with his clothes still on, and sure enough, Sherlock curled up like a cat on the floor.

"So Mycroft was right," John chuckled to himself sleepily.

Sherlock cracked an eye open. "About _what_?" he demanded, voice muffled from the collar of his coat.

"Said we'd be moving in together by the end of the week," John started to explain, but dozed off halfway through the sentence.

John was woken at six o'clock the next morning by the announcement of an assembly all students were to report to.

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

John glanced at the clock. 5:57. He had time.

He lazily got up to brush his teeth, and was immensely grateful he was still wearing his clothes from last night, eliminating the problem of having to rush to get dressed.

John walked down to the dining hall through a crowd of other students, some still in their pajamas, and saw all the police officers from last night. Most of them were guarding the doors while a few stood at the front of the room with the detective inspector.

"Everyone, calm down. Quiet, please. We've just a few announcements to make and then you may resume your Saturday," the DI shouted over the crowd.

The students seemed to settle a bit, but there were still currents of hushed chatter sliding through the crowd.

"Ah, there you are," came a deep voice from behind John.

"Sherlock! You snuck out before I woke up," John whispered.

A girl standing in front of him turned and gave John a wide-eyed look. He flushed when he realized what his words implied.

"Where were you?"

"I had... work to attend to," Sherlock responded, surveying the crowd.

By now the detective inspector had finished introducing himself and was in the midst of explaining why he was present.

"And we're sorry to say..." he began, looking over the students with sympathy, "that last night, one of your classmates, Matilda Briggs, was found... dead outside the school."

The volume of chatter in the audience exploded, as well as several horrified screams breaking out from students who had just now heard the news.

"Yes, I understand. This is a shock to us all. We're doing everything we can to find out how this happened," the DI once again tried to calm the audience.

"They know she was murdered with a lethal injection, they just don't want to scare the students," Sherlock muttered.

"I suppose that would make sense. How do _you_ know that, exactly?" John whispered, turning to face Sherlock.

"Stole their file." Sherlock patted something under his jacket with a smug grin.

"You know you really shouldn't- ah, bugger it, you wouldn't listen to me anyway. But this is really something you should let the Yard work out, Sherlock."

"The Yard is full of imbeciles. We've got to get out of here, I need to investigate the crime scene."

"They're not letting anyone out," stated John. "Can't we go after?"

"When there are others around? "Of course not. It has to be while everyone else is occupied, now think of an excuse."

"Say we have to use the toilet."

Sherlock shook his head. "It's not enough; they'll still turn us away."

"Can you fake tears?"

He looked offended. "Of course I can."

"Well," said John, "just pretend you're overcome with emotion or something and need to be excused."

"Not a chance. Look around; everyone's crying. And if I cause a disruption we'll be escorted out, so even worse."

"Bollocks."

Sherlock's face lit up. "I've got it!" he announced. Sherlock took off his coat and bunched it in one hand, grabbing John's sleeve and pulling him along with the other. The two pushed through the crowd of students, towards a doorway guarded by a young police officer.

Sherlock concentrated on the floor until his face flushed beet red, then (to John's confusion) covered his groin with the wadded-up coat. He and John approached the police officer.

"Erm... sir. I need to, um, go to the toilet... _urgently_, please," Sherlock said, his voice a full pitch higher than usual.

The officer looked from Sherlock to John, then strictly answered, "I'm sure it can wait. No students are allowed out until the assembly is over when you're dismissed."

Sherlock flushed brighter. "It can't wait, really. I, uh... n-no one can see. Y-you must understand," he stuttered.

John caught on to the act. "He can't control it mate, it's early... and at a time like this! You've got to let him go, or it's bloody distasteful." He glimpsed Sherlock's smirk out of the corner of his eye.

The officer glanced down at where Sherlock was tightly clenching his jacket, and a flash of understanding passed over his face. He sighed and looked around, then lowering his voice, said, "Fine. But make it fast."

"Thank you," Sherlock whispered hastily before running out. The officer caught John before he could follow.

"Why do you need to go?"

John gulped, searching his head for an excuse.

"I... need to help him; he's having a bit of a... hard time," John answered, dashing out the door after Sherlock before the officer could stop him.

They ran down the hallway together until they could no longer hear the panicked murmurs and booming of the microphone from inside. Sherlock's face had regained its normal lack-of-color, and he put his coat back on.

"That... was brilliant," said John, slightly out of breath.

They were quiet for a moment, and John looked back up at Sherlock, whose eyes were amused.

"What?"

"...'Hard time'?"

They held each other's gaze. Then simultaneously burst out laughing.

"It was the first thing I thought to say!" John tried to explain between giggles.

Sherlock and John stood there for a full minute trying to regain their composure, which was hard because once one of them looked at the other the laughter started again.

"We should go, we don't have much time," Sherlock finally said, wiping his eyes.

They took off out the building, and as John suspected all the evidence had been cleared away.

"Not much to investigate," he said, "it's the same right now as it's always been."

"We're not looking for tangible clues, John."

"I don't understand what you're trying to say."

"I mean-" Sherlock began, then looked over his shoulder and glanced around to make sure no one else was present. "Lay down," he commanded.

"What?"

"Down. On the concrete, parallel to the school, exactly how the victim was found."

John chose to ignore how quickly Sherlock could refer to a classmate as a 'victim', and consented, carefully lowering himself onto the concrete.

"Alright... now what?"

"I need you to get up."

"Sherlock! Ah-" John winced as he pushed himself up, shoulder injury responding to the strain.

"Now," instructed Sherlock, "I need you to face me, away from the school, then drop to the ground as if you've been stabbed."

"Sherlock, I don't see what you're getting at here. Why should it matter which way she was facing? We should be figuring out why she was killed, not how."

"Ah, yes, but I'm getting there," Sherlock smiled. "You ask, why would someone want to kill her? Let's go over the possibilities. First off, they could have been out to get her. Unlikely, she was in a public setting, and it obviously wasn't arranged, Tilly Briggs was in the wrong place at the wrong time. So she either witnessed something she wasn't supposed to, or was an obstacle that needed to be disposed of. Now, her body was found later in the evening, so she should have been entering the building rather than leaving it-" Sherlock grabbed John's shoulders and spun him around to face the school- "and was either attacked from behind as an obstacle, or needed to be disposed of as a witness. In other words, either someone was entering the school who wasn't supposed to be, or exiting with something they shouldn't."

"That's brilliant," John remarked.

The statement seemed to take Sherlock by surprise, if only slightly, and John could tell he tried to mask it.

"Now," Sherlock began, positioning his fingertips together under his chin and turning away, "what could someone possibly want so badly from inside Saint Bart's-"

"that they had to kill for it?" finished John.


End file.
